


Collage

by Aurastorm



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, Angst and Porn, F/F, Fluff and Angst, HateSex?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 20:11:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18581740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurastorm/pseuds/Aurastorm
Summary: Pharah never joined overwatch, in the wake of her mother’s death she chose to pick a side...But her weakness still resides within Overwatch: Angela Ziegler





	Collage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SnapplePie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnapplePie/gifts).



The late night meetings should have stopped oh, so long ago. And here she was again. At the accorded time, the selected place.

 

Angela was leaned on the counter while she watched the TV in the corner of the bar for a second before her eyes roll back to the glass before her, half empty.

 

“I take it the place is open, darling?”

“You are late.”

Her new companion’s elbows lean back onto the counter facing away from it and her. A sly, cocky half smile is on her lips, the deep crimson of the enhanced eyes burn onto Angela’s lips, pursued in disappointment, maybe disgust at her need for this woman she once knew like her palm. 

“Ah, fashionably so, I didn’t want to interrupt your, um,” She nods towards the Tv, “Your show.” Now Angela looks closely, noticing the most recent failure of Overwatch being broadcasted. She grimaces and lowers her head, sinking it between her shoulders, pinching the bridge of her nose.  _ Fucking, Genji. _

“It was fun to watch, I hear a few civilians got scraped,” the red eyed soldier looks at her nails dismissively sporting fingerless glovesc before rubbing her thumb onto crook of her index finger in a gesture, “Hear it’ll cost to fix the collateral damage.” Her hand reaches over and takes Angela’s drink bringing it towards herself across the counter. Once she sees the doctor still cringing in the memories, she brings the glass for a sip.

“Shut up,” Angela stands up as the soldier in the leather jacket drinks down, “Let’s go, ja?”

With a satisfied  _ ah _ , the glass is set down and lips wiped on the back of her thumb, “Sure thing, puddin’.”

 

They walk out and towards the taller woman’s car, a black jeep, looking like just about all of them. Angela knows the monster that car was, however, the motor easily capable of pulling any six wheeler with ease. The door is opened for her, and she climbs in. The driver goes around, climbs and drives them. The music is always on. Her companion still hated silence despite everything. The drive had no conversation, but she appreciates that the radio was on a station that did not have news on Angela’s most recent fuck up. The car stops, but the driver seems lost in thought for a second.

“Can we hurry it up?”

“Earnest aren’t you?”  _ I know you hate me but is this necessary? The hate and the bites. _

 

The place was an average motel, nothing fancy, the standard inn for travellers who hadn’t quite made it to their destination. This must be her place for the month. Mercy is led along to the second floor, the door opened and she is welcomed in, “Come in,  _ mi casa es su casa.” _

_ “ _ Your  _ casa _ is a little cramped.”

A bed, two armchairs, a tv, a bed and a bathroom. The radio is on to some song, that one that sounded like all of them. The only things looking like they saw constant use were the refrigerator with a small magnet from Giza, the cluttered desk, and the coffee machine. The coffee still smelling fresh, “I thought you drank tea.”

“Yes, but you drink coffee,” her host is removing her jacket, throwing it onto the armchair, picking up a cigarette box and lighting one while Angela went to see the desk looking over the files of the poor bastard that’d die soon enough.

“Smoking is bad for your health,” Angela scoffs as the box is set back down. The only response is a particularly loud and smoky puff. Angela rolls her eyes, and starts to unbutton her blouse, catching the attention of her partner in crime, “Real fucking mature,  _ liebe.” _

Hands meet her half way, strong digits opening the rest of her blouse gently. The dog tags around the woman’s neck almost glow in the dim hotel light; two of them, actually, familiar heirlooms for the Overwatch agent. One labeled  _ Ana Amari, old and worn _ , and the other  _ Fareeha Amari _ , though the latter is crossed out, like someone took a screwdriver and striked the etchings out in blind rage. She did prefer to be called  _ Pharah _ , and nothing else. Angela had learned this and for the most part obliged, seeing little of her lover in this Talon agent. 

 

The blouse is opened, Angela exposed, and calloused fingers trace over fresh bruises, still red scrapes. They stand like that, Angela’s blue eyes on the red pair that looks at her injuries. Something pulls at those red orbs, but all she says is, “They did a number on you,  _ mein stern _ .” Pharah’s hand takes her chin as if to examine her face, grinning, “But they didn’t hurt your money maker, I see.”

“Are you going to keep playing with your food?” the doctor reproaches her. Pharah laughs, and removes the cigarette from her lips, pressing it onto the cold metal of her old dog tag. She unceremoniously throws the half smoked stick off to the side leaning in to give Angela a proper fierce kiss. It was playing with fire, laying with the enemy, but it was the only fire the burned her so well. It smelled of fresh nicotine, but at least the smell of rum was a welcomed one. Pharah had always been intoxicating to Mercy.

 

Their lips hardly part, Angela’s hands grip the sides of Pharah’s tight fitted black shirt, Pharah’s hands grip the sides of Angela’s head. They huff against one another before continuing the gesture, trading saliva, tongue’s far too busy to sass one another in hatred. Their bodies press closer before how it’s hardly enough scorches. They pedal a bit, and Angela ends sat on the desk, displacing papers in her wake. Pharah’s shirt is the first thing thrown fully off but the doctor’s chest is already getting kisses and bites. Some nips get dangerously close to the bruises from her failure, but she is pulled up once more to Angela’s awaiting lips. 

 

It’s a brutal exchange, hands searching for a hold, for a stable grip. Instead their palms slide, test, grab at what they can, heat rising between them as their bare pulses press close.  _ The table won’t do _ . Or maybe it will, Angela’s jeans are being opened, Pharah doesn’t cease her kissing as she slides her hand into her jeans, searching for the wetness that had pooled for her touch. Pharah nestles between her knees, gripping one knee and forcing open as the kiss pushes Angela back against the wall, fingers toying with her clit already as her current fixation moans against her tongue. It's a little rough, as the hour of waiting for her one night stand to arrive had done little to help her need, but Pharah doesn’t seem to care, rubbing harsh circles against her clit, the dry friction making Angela grimace a bit against Pharah’s lip— She pulls on the Talon agent’s hair in retaliation, feeling —  _ What the fuck _ — “Take the — Gloves off—!” Angela hisses, utterly livid. 

 

Pharah groans but works on that, removing the glove from her freenhand with her teeth while she continues to toy with Angela. Only when she has no option does she remove her other hand and takes off the glove. She makes a face at Angela wiggling her free fingers now.  _ Stupid fingerless gloves _ . “You are insufferable,” Angela pulls her by the belt buckle to continue where they left off. 

Fareeha’s—  _ Pharah’s  _ hand is immediately in her jeans once more, grabbing a palmful of her crotch and squeezing. Her jeans felt full, tight— definitely hot. She realizes she was already humping the soldier’s hand, though for once there wasn’t any sarcastic or sassy quip as they kiss. She opens an eye to half lid.

 

Her partner was fully invested in the kiss, breathing hot through her nostrils, seemingly lost in the split second of relief…. Her fingers enter Angela whose gaze is interrupted by a loud moan, she curses as its drips out of her mouth. Refocusing she matches Pharah’s gaze. There’s thirst to that look but also something else in there. She can’t quite put her finger on it. 

 

However, she must have made a face as Fareeha pressed two digits into her, slowly, matching Angela’s parting lips and taking a bite of the lower one. Pharah steals her breath away as she goes to the base of her finger, pressing into a sensitive spot: she  _ knows _ Angela. The doctor’s nail dig into the back of her neck as she starts to ride those two fingers bent awkwardly against the wall as Pharah lifts her knees to get a better angle. She loves how Angela immediately wraps her legs around her lower back, drinking in how the blonde knit her brows in some vague attempt at concentrating in coming undone. “ _ Cum for me, princess,” _ She is leaned over her now, a hand on the desk and finger deep into the blonde who was had weaved her hand into her black hair, “I’m sure you want to. Let me treat your right, not like those girls you take to your office after a long healing the useless.” 

 

_ How does she _ \- Her body cuts her off, moaning loudly and roughly shifting her grip onto the back of Fareeha’s neck, gasping as she rides out her orgasm. When she collapses she feels Pharah nuzzling her hair, slowly pulling out. Angela lays there, neck crooked on the wall, a leg hanging off the table, jeans open but definitely still on, all while the Talon agent licks at her slick fingers. “I am certain you taste of stroodle now,” She gives her a cocky grin licking her lips. After a second Angela grabs  Pharah by the buckle once more, using it as a hold to sit up, purring as she nuzzles into the shirtless soldier, groping her chest. It's just a distraction, because the ego stroke is enough to make her not realize Angela was shifting — Before she knows it, the doctor’s plump thigh is between her legs. Another yank to the belt makes her grind against it. “ _ Shit, _ ” snarls the pilot with a hot exhale. Angela grips the buckle harder, and hooks her fingers on the loop of the military pants, yanking her in for another hump as she presses her leg up— The shove makes Pharah grunt and raise a bit onto her toes  with the press. Both hands are now braced on the table by Angela’s hips, and all the talon soldier can do is glance up to Angela and her self-serving grin.

“You really didn’t think I was done did you?”

 

Pharah only huffs in some meager attempt at defiance, but Angela continues to guide her grinds. It doesn’t take much to have the soldier dry humping her leg in need while they kiss once more, freeing up Angela to grope and pinch at her beautiful breast. She pulls on the soft peak,  chuckling at the desperation in Pharah’s eyes. Finally she starts to work on opening the pants. The belt slides off, “Wrists, stat, soldier.” Not a bear of hesitation, her wrists go forward, and Angela binds them using the belt. She goes to stands, pushing Pharah with her leg, and sinking down as soon as she has the chance, taking the pants down as she goes. Her thumbs splay her lover’s folds. Her mind washes with old scars. Her tongue knows where to go, where to push and look. Bound hands grip her hair for a second — Or so she thinks, a little busy with her work.

 

Pharah’s hands undo the doctor’s ponytail, caressing her scalp and massaging out the likely soreness from a day of wearing the up do. Angela looks, meeting the surprisingly gentle gaze, gripping the firm thighs. The golden locks slip through her fingertips. Angela sits up a little more, resting her forehead on Fareeha’s abdomen, arms wrapping up at her lower back. Fareeha sets her arms around Angela’s head, holding her there. A dry heave and sob, nail dig in. “Get up, Angela.” 

_ Get over it.  _ She doesn’t listen, not at first. When she gets up, Fareeha is removing the rest of her clothes, while Angela wipes at her red face and does the same. 

 

This had happened before. One of them fell apart but stubbornly argued there was no helping it. They were a team. A weak team. And even their moral compasses were null against the nostalgic safety in the other’s arm. The talon agent takes seat at the edge of the bed, and holds up her bound hands, face dead serious.  _ Get over me. One last time _ . 

 

The same lie plays in her head, their head.  _ This is the last time _ . She offers her hand to Fareeha, who takes it in her own. Her thumbs brush over the knuckles, bringing it up to plant a gentle kiss. Its brought to the tattooed cheek, pressing it against the warm skin. Angela cups her palm, holding dearly. Her thumb graces the skin. The doctor straddles Fareeha’s lap, their foreheads press close, noses touching. Bound wrists hold the cold cheek of the doctor.   _ One last time, intimacy. _

 

She undoes the belt, and they cup one another’s face. The radio was still there, and Fareeha gently sings whatever song it was for her, a lullaby for the nightmares of her childhood burning; remains from them sharing a bed and a life eons ago. Fareeha still soothed her. Their eyes are on the other’s. Everytime, the gaze pierced her heart. Humanity, need, loneliness. Both.  _ There would never be a last time _ . They pull into another kiss, passionate, with every ounce of love left within them. 

 

Decisions made, consequences had. The aftermath left them shattered, taped up like collages at best, with all the edges one would expect from a full on collision. Their bodies meet in the middle ground, no man’s land. 

 

They push onto the creaky bed, Angela quick to press herself against her lover, holding her leg as they start to grind, this time together.  She kisses the muscular calf, whispering sweet nothings in german against the caramel skin. Angela is certain Fareeha responds, though she isn’t sure if its french, or english, or egyptian arabic. She loved how Fareeha was quickly falling apart as their cores and thighs became a wet mess, the music barely drowning the noise of their needy love making. Angela must have bitten Fareeha’s leg because there was saliva mixed with the sweat. She did something to trigger the last moan of pleasure that made her lover grip the bedding so desperately. Yet they humped wildly, till they were spent a second time in unison.

When they give in, Angela’s hair is freely tousled and for a few minutes all Fareeha sees is gold. The weight of the doctor on her felt perfect. They were sweaty and exhausted, and for once everything seemed peaceful. They exchange some words, Fareeha asks about her bruises and scrapes, gently massaging where there is some injury. Angela waves it off,  instead nestling next to the dog tags, to listen to the tick-tock of her lover’s kindness. Fareeha holds her hand, holds it through the calm of the eye of the storm. The smell of her lover and coffee just like back home.

 

The radio crooned, the cars barked, the refrigerador buzzed, and everything made sense. “And, tomorrow?”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes hi. @Aura_Stormgirl in twitter for contact info.
> 
> Snippet for someone inspired by someone.


End file.
